Caring is Not an Advantage
by TruffleHead
Summary: Sherlock comes home with a head injury to dinner with John and his wife and becomes scared that with his sluggish thoughts he might say something he'll regret later. Angsty JohnLock. A prompt done with the ever- brilliant Lock Lokidottir: 'Fear' and 'John Baking'. I'll update someday. XD
1. Caring is Not an Advantage, ch 1

**Alright, so the fabulous Sherlock Nelms and I collaborated to come up with this prompt: 'Fear', and 'John Baking'. ;) So, check out how she took the prompt in her story 'Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway.'**

**And, don't fret my dear readers, I did do my concussion research before writing this. ;) And, it turns out, you **_**can **_**in fact go to sleep if you have had a concussion. :) Alright, on with it, then... :)**

Sherlock's entire body ached as he heaved himself over the doorframe that led into 221 B, stumbling, but quickly righting himself as his foot caught momentarily on the wooden door frame. As much as he hurt physically, his head's injuries scared him even more. His thoughts were so sluggish, so different from the normally sharp, alert thoughts that it scared him.

This fear, however, was nothing compared to the fear of what he might do tonight, without his normally careful, quick brain that he could usually rely on to make sure he didn't say something he would regret, something that may betray his... emotions.

Habit took Sherlock over as he realized John would be waiting for him upstairs. His chest constricted with agony as he shoved all that emotion away just as he had done countless times before. _Caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage, _Sherlock muttered to himself, using the phrase Mycroft had given him to make it easier. He gripped the railing even tighter and squeezed his eyes shut. Mycroft had almost instantly recognised Sherlock's feelings for John, and in turn had also understood the predicament that came with the emotion.

John was married.

Mary- a good enough woman, but even so, Sherlock hated her. He had to- at every mention of her name, every ding of John's mobile that signaled her text, every glance in her direction had Sherlock's blood _boiling _with envy. Because his John was taken. And he would never get him back.

Sherlock hurriedly sucked in a breath in an attempt to flush the images from his mind. _Caring is not an advantage, caring is NOT an advantage..._

Slowly, carefully, he made his way up the stairs and into their flat.

John was in the kitchen, baking by the smell of it, and that was all it took to calm Sherlock's thoughts down considerably. His head still pounded, and his body still ached, but there was still comfort in the fact that the doctor was just around the corner, probably making Mary and him dinner- his thoughts fell short when he rounded that corner.

His breath never failed to hitch whenever he saw the doctor. Sherlock was scared that someday he might notice, that someday John might put two and two together and find out that he loved him. That he had always loved him.

Sherlock's hands reached out for the wall to steady himself as he felt himself sway on his feet, his head foggy and dizzy from the night's previous actions.

John was there in an instant, his arms around his waist, keeping him from falling. It felt too good. Far too good. He needed to get away, fast, otherwise he might-

"I think you have gone a bit too far this time, Sherlock," John said teasingly, "I think your body may be plotting revenge against you, for all the things you do to it." John said while steering him carefully towards the sofa and plopping him down on the soft cushions. Raising a steady hand, John placed his fingers on Sherlock's forehead to check for fever and sighed.

"John," Sherlock's voice cracked, and he immediately scolded himself for it, for giving him a hint of what was happening inside of him. _You can't let him hear that! What if he guesses? He cannot possibly know. Never._Wiping his hand across his forehead in a vain attempt to clear it, he started again, struggling to keep his voice even, "I," Sherlock stopped to clear his throat as he sensed his voice becoming shaky, "I was in a fight. It was necessary, for- for the case." Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing with all he had that his brain would clear up. He heard Mary enter the room.

"Oh dear! What on earth happened to you, Sherlock?" Her voice rang in his ears, reminding him of all the things he couldn't have. Of the _one _thing he had ever wanted with all his heart. Not like he was even close to deserving the prize that was John Watson; oh no, he doubted few did. He lacked so much in that area, anyway, that Sherlock thought it was probably more of a punishment than a pleasure to be in any sort of relationship with him. The thought brought tears to his eyes.

Caring is not an advantage, he reminded himself quietly.

"Sherlock, I know you're not going to like this, but this time I really need to take you to the hospital." John's voice was so close to his ear; Sherlock barely registered what he was saying. "Sherlock." John said, his voice impatient from the lack of response, "Sherlock, I think you have a concussion."

With great difficulty, Sherlock managed, "No, I'm- I'm fine. Anyways, I'm famished; what have you planned for," Sherlock cleared his throat once again, "dinner?" He opened his eyes, confident there were no traces of any tears left that would give him away.

John looked at him disapprovingly before saying, "Spaghetti." As Sherlock's gaze matched his, John realised Sherlock wasn't giving up anytime soon. Sighing in defeat, John said, "It's ready now, if you would like some." Sherlock nodded once and looked away. John's eyes were those of a god. It hurt him that he couldn't tell him so.

Sherlock heard the clatter of plates from the other room and carefully rose to take a seat at the table that was, for once, clear of any sort of body parts or 'unacceptable' messes, as John had put it. He crossed the room slowly, but even the small movement made his throbbing head worsen. Ignoring the pain- or, at least, trying to- Sherlock sat down in his chair, across from John. Even though he could never have him, it felt good just to have him close.

He had to admit, the meal was very good; John was more than a competent cook. Mary probably had the same thought, and she looked over at John and smiled at him. He looked down at my plate, quickly. There was no doubt John would smile back. Sherlock felt his fist clench underneath the table of its own accord. And no doubt they would kiss.

CARING IS NOT AN ADVANTAGE.

Sherlock released his fist and let out a small, choked sob. This was pathetic. Sherlock Holmes, the mighty. Why did Moriarty's facetious voice chose _now _to torture him? Sherlock Holmes, who thinks himself so much better than everyone else. His laugh echoed in Sherlock's brain. What are you now?

"Sherlock?" John's voice. Terror, pure terror swept through Sherlock in one mighty wave. Slowly he raised his eyes, waiting for the shouting. Waiting for them to leave and never come back. Tears filled his eyes. He didn't care anymore; what was the use? All this effort, gone to waste.

John's eyes were still kind, though, and confused. "Sherlock, are you in pain?"

Sherlock couldn't help it; he snorted with laughter. Give him a minute; he'll figure it out.

The clank of a fork. "Sherlock, if you refuse to go to the hospital, then at least get some rest." He turned to Mary and took her hand. "Dear, I think we should go and let Sherlock get some rest." So John hadn't figure it out, after all. He should be happy; he should be thanking God for his extraordinary luck. But why was _disappointment_, of all things, filling him now?

He knew the answer, deep inside. In a way, he had missed his chance. Now John would probably never know he loved him. There would be no way he would ever again have his guard down enough to let something slip, and there was no way he would ever _tell_ him. Sure, maybe, in some ways, that was a good thing, but nevertheless every lover always has that urge to be recognized; to be loved back.

Too bad that was never going to happen.

Something within Sherlock snapped in half. He didn't even have the energy to say that caring wasn't an advantage anymore. Because he knew the truth; maybe caring wasn't wasn't an advantage, maybe sentiment could be used as leverage against you in some cases. But it sure as heck was something to live for.

He could hear them getting their coats on, and he forced his feet to move and follow John and his _wife_ down the stairs to show them out.

"Remember, Sherlock," John said, holding the door open and preparing to step out, "get some rest." With one last look, John stepped out onto the street.

Sherlock closed the door with a bang, and he felt a silent sob wrack through his body. He blinked his eyes, trying desperately to clear them, but failed. His sobs getting louder, Sherlock slowly climbed the stairs and retreated into his bedroom, where he spent the night clenching his teeth tightly and telling himself there were other things to live for.

**More? Maybe? If you have any ideas on how I could continue (or if I should continue), please tell me. Thanks for reading. :)**  
**=^..^= TruffleHead**


	2. Caring is Not an Advantage, ch 2

**Oh, my dear music, what would I do without you? What You Know by Two Door Cinema Club was very helpful when writing this. :) **

**And, thank you, Sherlock Nelms, for being my other, irreplaceable muse. I would like to dedicate this story to you and your ever- radiating awesomeness. Seriously. Your comments always mean the world to me. :)**

**Please tell me what you think! **

Mary's smile was bittersweet as she set down the phone. She had one heck of a choice to make today, and none of the possible decisions she could reach could avoid hurting the people around her. But, so was the price of being a spy.

James Bond made spying look like some sort of sought- after profession, but actuality, it was extremely hard to find anybody who was willing for the job. Hollywood has twisted the career so far out of whack that it makes Mary's head hurt.

But why? Some people might ask. Who wouldn't want to be a master of every martial art ever invented, and get to learn like fifteen languages? Who wouldn't want to race down corridors, dodging the bullets flying overhead, and chasing bad guys that nobody else has the guts to chase down? Who wouldn't want to get to shoot things with scarily large guns with no law consequence whatsoever?

Mary sighed, put her elbows up on the kitchen table and buried her face in her hands. People who didn't want to have assassins crashing their wedding. People who didn't want to have to lie to everybody they know and tell them that you're a bloody _governess_. People who wanted to know, for sure, that they wouldn't ever have to be shipped off to Yugoslavia and have to fake their death to insure they wouldn't be followed.

**-story break horray-**

Sherlock awoke to the sharp, shrill ringing of his mobile. Sitting up abruptly, he blinked his eyes to try and wake himself up and to cast away the remnants of the nightmares that still lingered beneath his lids. Really, he was amazed he even got any sleep at all.

Reaching a hand over to his nightstand, he grabbed his phone and answered it, putting it to his ear.

"Yes?" He spoke into the device, his tone already disinterested. Even Lestrade, nowadays, couldn't get him very worked up about anything. The light from his world was gone.

A sob on the other end of the line. Sherlock rolled his eyes; this wasn't getting them anywhere. Say it, or don't say it. You don't call up Sherlock Holmes just to waste his time sniveling on the other end of the line.

"Sherlock-" The voice broke off again, briefly, and Sherlock subconsciously stood up. It was the voice from his nightmares.

"John? John, where are you?" Sherlock kept his voice level and let only a drop of concern show, although there was an ocean of it that had formed in his heart. Had John been attacked? Was he in some dark alleyway somewhere, stranded?

"I'm at our flat, Sherlock, but," sob, "It's Mary. She's dead."

Sherlock squeezed his lips together and quickly composed himself. John would get just as worked up as this if _he _had died, right?

Sherlock wasn't sure of the answer, and it made what little pathetic piece of a heart he had left shrink away.

Righting himself, he quickly censored what he was going to say in case his heart had wormed its way into his speech again. He had to do this a lot in order to avoid... mistakes.

"Do you need to, um, talk about it?" Sherlock said in a perfectly, skillfully even voice. He understood that humans sometimes took comfort in conversing about their troubles with other humans. And if it made John happy, then by all means, he would do whatever he could. Always.

"Do you mind? Could I just... pop over?" John's voice was so weak, so broken.

Sherlock bit his lip. He could say yes, right? That wouldn't arouse any... suspicion? Sometimes he would intentionally snap at John, or call him an idiot, and it hurt- oh God, did it hurt- but it was necessary. It was better to still have only his friendship than to be refused even that.

But this time, he couldn't bring himself to say no. His John was hurting. And he would rather die than refuse to help him heal.

"Of course, John." Sherlock said quietly, already looking forward to the moment when he would step over the door frame.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart melted at the kindness. That was the thing about John, though- he was kind to everyone. Sherlock wasn't special in any way. Sherlock formed and censored his reply, telling himself he didn't care. "You're welcome."

After hanging up the phone, the light almost visibly drained out of his life. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, sighing quietly, and then went to go get dressed.

2 minutes and 33 seconds later, Sherlock sat on the sofa and patiently watched the door.

4 minutes and 9 seconds later, still nobody had entered, but Sherlock would wait. Sherlock would sit on the sofa until the day he died to see John again. It was irrelevant that John would never do the same; this fact did not dull his love one bit.

It just made the ache in his heart turn into pure agony.

Only 7 seconds later, the door handle turned, and again, Sherlock subconsciously stood up.

Only it wasn't John.

"Get out." Sherlock said harshly, never wanting to see that face again, and _especially _not now, when John was near.

"Oh, but don't you want to know where your little friend is?" Moriarty said, feigning offense.

Sherlock _visibly _paled. "What have you done with John?"

Moriarty laughed. "Hmm, struck a chord now, have we?" He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, then stepped past him and over to the window and chuckled. "This'll be fun."

"Were you the one who killed his wife?" Sherlock asked, trying his best to snap back.

"Ha! I wish I could take the credit! But, unfortunately, no, that was not my doing. Although," Moriarty said, turning back to face Sherlock, "It did set up quite a... situation, did it not?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Oh, come on. It's obvious that you love him. Well, obvious to everyone _except _him. A bit ironic, don't you think?" Moriarty paused to take in Sherlock's expression, which he had managed to keep bank, by some miracle. "Point is, she's out of the picture now. There's a place for you to... step in." Moriarty chuckled.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, his voice dark. "You know I would never do that to John."

Moriarty smirked. "I knew you'd say that. _That's _why I'm here. Because I know, with Mary gone, how hard it will be for you to remain out of the picture. I want to be here to watch you suffer. I want to watch you wither in agony as he sits so close to you... and yet you can't touch him. And then, ultimately, you won't be able to resist any longer. And just when he's put his trust in you, John will see you for what you really are, and he'll refuse you. And I want to be here when whatever pathetic excuse for a heart Sherlock Holmes still has is finally broken completely."

"Ah, a wondrous plan, I must congratulate you on your planning, however, it seems to be riding on a very prominent "if"." Sherlock said, barely remaining composed. He could hear, even though he desperately wanted _not _to, the truth that rung in Moriarty's words.

"Enlighten me," Moriarty said mockingly.

"What if he doesn't refuse me?"

Moriarty sighed and made his way over to Sherlock. "_That_, right there Sherlock, is why my plan will work. Because no matter what happens, you'll never lose hope that maybe, just maybe, your little fantasies will come true. I'll be watching you, Sherlock." Moriarty said, and then disappeared out the door.

**I will seriously love you forever if you review. I expect to write around two more chapters after this one. :)**  
**=^..^= TruffleHead**


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